'I'll never forget you'

Levi 'Chip' Borger Jr. at his East Allen Township home in May 2001. (Morning Call file photo)

Levi "Chip" Borger Jr.Special to The Morning Call

Whenever I return to my hometown of Kresgeville, I always take the same, slight detour. Winding upward through a hollow and then on across the hilltop, I see the Trachsville church and look as quickly as possible toward my friend's headstone, so that I may fix my eyes upon it for as long as I can. It's my way of saying, "I'll never forget you."

The Bible records in Ecclesiastes 12:5 that eventually we all go to our "long home."

David "Whitey" Bartholomew went there on June 19, 1968. He was 20.

I knew Whitey since fifth grade. He lived just up the road from my house. His parents were Dick and Blanche Strausberger. Blanche had a luncheonette, and Dick ran a lawn mower dealership and gas station.

When we were teenagers and played basketball after school, Whitey would never pick me to be on his team. That made me play all the harder to beat him. Of course, we were friends. He just wanted to win.

Whitey and I were drafted into the Army and ordered to leave on the same day, Oct. 11, 1967. We were in the same platoon during basic training at Fort Gordon, Ga. After basic, we were designated "light infantry" and sent to Fort Polk, La., for further training. We were again assigned to the same company.

I recall a night training maneuver in which they sent us in pairs over unfamiliar terrain with a compass, and numerous "captors" tried to capture us. It was a moonlit night. Whitey and I were walking slowly across a high berm. I stopped him and said, "Does that look like a stump down there, or is it a captor?" I knelt down, grabbed a hefty stick and threw it. The stick hit the "stump," which got up and ran away. We laughed and took off running -- and never got caught.

At Fort Polk, we received our orders for Vietnam. We landed at Long Binh and traveled by bus to Bien Hoa. The two hosts that met us immediately and never left were heat and humidity. Many an impression greeted us, but none like these two.

After a night's stay in a vast complex consisting of row upon row of barracks, we were hustled out to an immense expanse of tarmac filled to its edges with GIs. Here came our divisional assignment. There were the 4th Division, the 9th Division, the Americal Division, the 1st Cavalry, the 1st Division, the 25th Division. As soon as they called out our names along with our unit, we were to run, get our gear and move to that area.

We'd been lucky to stay together this long. I thought we'd already rolled the dice in our favor more than one possibly could.

A soldier on a high podium started calling. Soon it came: "Bartholomew, the 25th." Then, "Borger, the 25th."

I ran to catch up with Whitey and met him halfway across the open area, his gear already in hand. His face was flushed and his eyes were brimming with tears, because he thought we had been separated. I told him the good news.

Now it was off to Cu Chi. Whitey and I were in the 1st Battalion, 27th Infantry. He was in Charlie Company; I was in Bravo Company.

The day I left to be with my unit, a guy named McQueen was sitting on the back of our truck. I couldn't figure him out. Clean fatigues, no "piece."

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Cam Ranh Bay." That was one of the safer havens.

"How did you get that?"

"I re-upped," he said, meaning he had re-enlisted to get "off line." He mentioned he had a wife, and, I think, a child. He wanted to go to the rear, so he committed himself to another few years in the Army. I couldn't believe he had done that. I wanted to serve my two years and get out.

"Well, wait until you see what it is like out there," he said. "You might change your mind."

When I reached my unit, my welcoming committee consisted of a man called Reds.

"Hi, I'm Reds, you're our new machine gunner."

Taken aback, I asked who was the best machine gunner in our company.

"Schwartz is. Why, he is so good that he can pop one round off at a time. Fromm is his buddy. When Fromm walks point, Schwartz is right there with him, even though he's not supposed to be. They're right over there."

I walked over and called his name.

"Yeah," Schwartz said.

"They just made me a machine gunner. They said you're the best in the company. Can you give me some tips?"

He gave me a few, then asked, "Do you believe in God?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I said, and saw him evaluating my reply. It wasn't convincing, even to me.

"Well, I do," he said, "and if I don't make it here, I know I'll go to be with the Lord in heaven, but you'll still be walking around down here in the mud."

Three days later, Schwartz joined the eternal throng, and for sure I was still in the mud. Three others were killed that day. I remember seeing Fromm, who had been hit, being pulled out atop a rubber liner. He was screaming, "My God, oh my God!"

Quite a reality check. So this is 'Nam.

I saw Whitey only twice in the field. Once, my company linked up with a company that turned out to be Whitey's. He surprised the heck out of me when he appeared in our perimeter. He walked me over to his site and introduced me to some of his friends. We weren't together long. I had to go out on an ambush that night, and the next day we broke camp and left.

The second time, we had just moved into an area and had not set up for the night. We were just holding our position. I sat on a berm, opening a can of C rations. I saw columns of GIs filing past, when I heard, "Chipper, Chipper!" It was Whitey's voice. My nickname is Chip, but he always called me Chipper.

I hightailed it over to him. We hugged. His face was red, and he was slightly hung over. He told me that his company was to stay put that day. And so he and others began to drink some local beer, when suddenly they were given orders to move out, which caught them by surprise. We had a good laugh, and just like that, he was gone.

'Nam was so unlike anything else.

After a two-day firefight, we went through a bunker complex. Some of us were leaning against a bunker when a radio telephone operator sidled up to us, asking if we had cleared the bunker. We all looked at each other and said, "No." He said he'd do it.

The RTO looked in and saw movement. "Charlie" opened fire on him with an automatic, grazing his skull. He screamed at us, "Get out of here, they're in the bunker!" As we scurried away, Charlie started firing at us. We huddled against another bunker and saw a steady stream of white tracers. I closed my eyes and thought I was going to die. But Charlie didn't have the angle on us. His bullets went through the top of the bunker.

Charlie stopped, and we ran. I jumped into a water trench and opened fire with my M-60, allowing one of our guys to reach safety. But my shooting made me nervous, because it was around dusk and I couldn't see well without my glasses -- I'd broken them the day before. I paused but someone yelled, "Keep firing!"

Our fire directed on the bunker silenced it.

Miraculously, we all survived. But I saw our 18-year-old medic lying on the ground, his eyes open, his face covered with mosquitoes. He had gone into shock.

A "slick" flew in. My lieutenant turned to me and said, "Get on that chopper back to base and get glasses."

So there I was, walking our company area safe in Cu Chi with a PX [a store] down the road, our enlisted men's club a mere 30 yards outside my hooch. Twenty minutes earlier, I'd been thinking I wouldn't make the next minute.

The following day I saw Whitey cutting across our battalion compound. I hollered, "Hey, Whitey!" He stopped and called over, "Chipper!" Immediately, I saw the bandaging on his right elbow. He said he had caught some shrapnel, 16 stitches worth, and was headed to have them taken out. We walked to the dispensary together, and I watched as they unwrapped the bandages and removed the stitches.

On our return, I told Whitey about McQueen. I asked if he would join me to check out re-upping, which he did. We were both eligible.

We both grabbed paperwork and headed back. I tried reinforcing Whitey with all the reasons why we should re-enlist. He seemed open to the idea.

When we got back to our battalion area, Whitey had a profound request: "If either one of us doesn't make it back home from here, then let's have the other one go home and tell his parents how much he loves them."

I said, "Yeah, sure Whitey."

"No, I mean it! If I don't make it over here, tell my parents how much I love them, and I'll do the same for you."

"Yeah, OK, I will. You, too."

I handed my paperwork in at company headquarters. I didn't quite know what to expect. The orderly and an aide were in stone silence. They only stared at me. I just left.

That evening, I met Whitey over at the enlisted men's club. We stayed until it closed, and then moved outside where small clusters of men smoked and spoke in hushed conversations. Our hearts were all taken by the Otis Redding song "(Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay," which was playing on the jukebox inside.

I asked Whitey if he had handed in his paperwork. He said he had not and wasn't going to. I couldn't believe it and asked him why.

"Remember when I was captain of our basketball team? Well, I wanted to be the best on our team and become captain, and I did. And if I do my best over here and come home, I'll be a man. And if I don't, I know I'll still have done my best and die a man."

There wasn't much to say after that. I dropped the topic, and the next day went out to the field.

On the day Whitey was killed, we were set up in a village. Three of us were in a hooch. Word went around that 3rd Platoon would be sent out to help Charlie Company. It wasn't long after they left that we got the word: Charlie Company ran into an ambush.

When the choppers came back hours later, I ran over to meet them. I knew a guy named Walker, who had spent time with Whitey and me. Walker walked away from one slick, his eyes almost instantly meeting mine. He quickly looked away and back again.

I knew.

Walker told me that he pulled Whitey out. I just moved off and cried.

The next day I was ordered onto a convoy back to Cu Chi. After re- enlisting, I, too, had orders for Cam Ranh Bay, where, after a series of extensions, I stayed until December 1970.

You see, there were really two Vietnams. The Vietnam for the support troops was job-like. Once your shift was pulled, however long the hours, you could go to the PX, a movie or a USO club. And then there was the grunt's Vietnam The 'Nam. Seated next to me on my flight home was one of its starkest reminders: a grunt, well-pleased to show me his secret and most highly prized possession -- a shriveled ear on a chain.

The evening of my first day home, I visited Whitey's parents and kept the pact that he wanted so much for us to keep.

Before I did, I spoke the part that might have been his to speak, to my own parents, and have ever since.

Thanks, Whitey.

On July 28, 1996, in Kresgeville, a memorial was dedicated on land donated by Blanche and Dick for all war veterans, giving Whitey special consideration.

Standing just across from where I was seated were Whitey's parents and family. One would have to know Dick. He is a burly, no-nonsense guy. I was still feeling extremely awkward and stigmatized after all these years. Dick parted from his family and headed my way. He stood alongside me and placed his hand on my shoulder.